


Take This Off My Shoulders

by Rhoverty



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (And thats okay), Angst, Bruce is trying, But enough for a mention, Canon, Canon Child Death, Cars, Epic Crime Fighting, Explosion, Family Fun Time, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Little ball of Angst, My baby boy isn’t doing so well, Nightmares, PFFT, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, What’s that?, Whump, angry boi, because those are cool, cussing/cursing, father-son feels, hes also a bit overprotective, not too bad tho, obv, soft boi, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-18 12:53:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17581229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoverty/pseuds/Rhoverty
Summary: Spending some quality time with your son at a car show, is meant to be a fun and relaxing time.However, the universe always has a funny way of explosively ruining the moment.And it always has something to do with Gotham’s inner circle of criminal enterprises and the clown she houses.





	1. A Rare Sunny Day in Gotham

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. Hello.
> 
> Welcome aboard The Pain Train. Tickets please.
> 
> Yes, thank you. Thank you.
> 
> I recommend a seat by the window, you’ll get the best view.
> 
> Sorry what was that? Um, no. I’m not particularly familiar with the term “comfort” so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. (At the moment).
> 
> Anyways, on with the show. 
> 
> Please keep your hands and feels inside the cabin at all times.
> 
> And Enjoy the ride!
> 
> *catapults you into hell*
> 
>  
> 
> (Side Note - Unbeta’d. Any and all mistakes are mine.)

Mornings brought peace and sound. The light of the sun, which rose from its peeks beyond the harbor, blanketed the sky in its pastel hues and flicker of warmth which peered through draped windows and cracked blinds. The small caravan of birds bounced across the trees, singing their morning melody as they plucked at newly blossomed berries.

Late spring bloomed new buds and brought in late risers. Summer insects began their rituals, while squirrels returned to their trees and bundles hidden within. The deer gathered by the streams, drinking the melt of winter and plucking at the soils new roots.

However, not all enjoyed the company that lived beyond the manor and the trees they inquired. They found the beauty as intoxicating as the nights whisky, with their thrum of noise just as irritating. A soft breeze fluttered into the room, brushing away the crimson curtains and whisking across bare skin and dark locks. It fluttered their messy strands and tugged at their loose articles until they groaned into the pillow they cradled.

Fervently, the birds went along with their song, standing at the windows edge and peering through its mesh beyond the room. Inside, the boy shuffled beneath the sheets, pulling them over his form and burying his head into the freshly washed covers of feathered pillows.

Perched besides the others, a Robin made its way toward the screen and pecked at its wire, curiosity gleaming in its dark orbs. Again it pecked, chirping in protest at the frame before giving up and flying away.

A long, exhausted sigh brushed across his lips, fluffing the stray flocks of white that lay across closed lids. Slowly, the curtain of lashes opened revealing the bright teal color they hid and blinking away the sun which peered through those curtains and dug into his eyes.

Immediately he clenched them shut, giving way to another groan as he stretched. His knees popped and toes cracked, ankles cackled and the vertebra along his spine followed. His elbows snapped and wrists creaked. The yawn that followed sent tears to his eyes and he rubbed those away with his knuckles - the dry and cracked skin scraping against his lids.

Once the ritual was complete, he let his limbs fall onto the mattress, the tips of his fingers brushing their edges. Blinking a few more times, he carted both hands through his hair and dragged them over his face. The nails of his index picked at the gunk at the corners of his eyes as his palms scrubbed at the stubble which peppered his cheeks. Another sigh and he let his hands rest on the bed once more.

He stared up at the ceiling, blankly drawing patterns within its plaster before turning his head to look at the clock resting on the nightstand.

07:13, their green letters blinked.

He pulled a pillow over his face and groaned into its fabric.

“ _Fuck_.”

 

* * *

 

With damp strands, cleanly shaven cheeks, and ready for the day ware, he trudged into the kitchen, socks scuffing along the wooden floors. Unsurprisingly he was greeted with company as the old butler went about, busying himself besides to stove.

“Hey, Alfie.” He yawned, opening the fridge and pulling out the judge of orange juice within.

The elder turned his head to glanced over his shoulder and gave a warm smiled toward the young man. The same one that went about pouring himself a drink. “Ah. Good morning, Master Jason. Sleep well?” He inquired, turning back to mixing a bowl of batter.

The younger gave a shrug in response as he rounded the counter, seating himself in one of the stools while taking a slip of his drink.

The older man hummed. “Any plans today then?”

Finishing the glass, he set it on the granite top and slumped over, chin resting in his palm. “I’m thinkin’ about goin’ to go see that car show happening downtown today.”

“That so?” Alfred mused, as he ladled the batter and poured it onto the flat top resting on the stove. The contents bubbled and simmered for a moment until quieting. He repeated the process until the glass bowl was empty and eventually placed into the basin of the sink.

The boy hummed as he watched the older man work, content to observe.

“Should be fun. You should take your brothers with you. I’m sure they will enjoy it.”

That invoked a raised brow – the scar at its edge creasing slightly. “Seriously?”

“Indubitably.” The butler revoked without question as he went about flipping the pancakes. Each one a crisp golden brown with bubbled white edges.

Jason shook his head mildly, reaching over and placing his cup within the sink besides the bowl. “No offense, Alfie, but I think I’m the only one in this household who actually finds cars interesting.”

It was the butlers turn to raise a brow as he met the boys eyes with his own. Those teal orbs contrasting greatly against his aged grey, but holding just as much experience.

“Did you forget that your father finds them just as interesting as well?” An amused smirk drawled across his lips, watching as the boy pursed his own with knitted brows. “He even has an entire garage full of them. Most of them are his fathers of course, but he’s obtained his own collection over the years.”

“I know.” He grumbled, turning his head to look out the kitchen window and the oaks that lay beyond.

The butler took that as a win and removed the pancakes from the stove and onto a well used, crystal platter. Piling them on top of one another, they looked like the leaning tower of pastries. Balancing them well, he held the patter out toward the younger. Without protest or explanation, he took it – and another other full of bacon – then shuffled out of the stool to place them on the dinning room table. Already it was set for breakfast, with the plates lined up at each chair for its number of guest, and the polished silverware to match.

It was days like these that he actually enjoyed the company of home. The smells he’d love as a kid, the high ceilings and haunting portraits of past Waynes. The long hallways that led to abandoned wings and empty rooms. The large windows and towering book cases. Even the faded rugs and new photos that dotted the walls. He had always considered the manor his home. Always had the want and need to come back and live within its walls and with the family it held.

He scrubbed at his face again and retreated back to the kitchen to find the butler swatting his father out of the area with a metallic spatula. The look on the mans face, as he cradled the coffee mug within his grasp, was of a pouting child beinging told no. It was a look of complete and utter betrayal. That alone made the boy giggle.

“How’s it feel gettin’ kicked outta your own kitchen, old man?” Jason mused, a grin decorating his cheeks with dimples and creased their freckles.

The man looked up with wide eyes before giving in to a light scowl and a mild frown. He opened his mouth to say something but the butler beat him to it with a snort.

“You would be quiet delusional if you thought for a moment this was ever Master Wayne’s kitchen.”

Jason chuckled as he took the small bowl of fruits ready on the counter, into his grasp. “Not for a moment, Alfie.” And he headed back toward the dinning room, placing them within the center of the mahogany.

As he began to return, he stopped short upon hearing the two men talk. Usually, he kept to himself when it pertained to their conversations. He was a man of boundaries. Respecting others if his was respected in return, but sometimes, he was a hypocrite. Curiosity won him over this time and he stayed in the shadows, hidden completely from view.

He could hear the shuffle of dishes and running water as Alfred began going about cleaning their ware.

“Word has it that there is to a car show happening downtown today.” The butler began and Jason felt his brow twitch in irritation.

Bruce hummed, seeming rather disinterested, which made Jason’s chest ache for some, concerning reason. He went about scolding himself for it.

However, Alfred continued without a beat. “Perhaps you should take one of the boys with you. I’m sure Master Jason would enjoy it. It would also be beneficial for the two of you to spend some quality time together.”

Bruce looked up from the newspaper he was in the process of folding under his arm. The look he gave the butler was strange, something Jason couldn’t pinpoint ever seeing expressed on the mans face. He looked... _hopeful_.

And that sent another pang through the boys chest.

“You think so?” The man inquired, voice unnaturally quiet and wavering in mixed emotions.

The butler lifted his head and raised a brow. It was the universal expression that dotted you an idiot. Jason had only been given that look a few times when ranting about his father to the old man. Bruce? Well, he’s been victim to that gaze since a very young age.

“I know so, Master Bruce.” Alfred chastised elegantly, something only the butler was able to do.

“Uh...” Bruce struggled slightly for words, tone caught in his throat as he took a drink of his coffee. Finally they came to light as he gave a nod of his head. “Alright then.”

“Splendid.” Alfred returned to the dishes, and without looking up, continued. “And please, Master Jason, step out from the shadows. It is rude to lurk.”

Jason should have known better. The man was essentially the father of Batman and grandfather to a bunch of well trained vigilantes – trying to hide was futile, no matter how good one could be. Without further ado, he stepped from the shadows and hovered in between the walk way of the kitchen and dinning room. His brows were knitted as he sent the other man a mild glare of discontent and betrayal. The butler looked over at him for a moment, a small, victorious smirk blushing his features as he finished the dishes and prepared to make his leave.

“Alright, well. I am going to go wake the other masters.” He began as he untied his apron and hung it on the pantry door. “You two can discuss amongst yourself for the time being. We’ll began breakfast once everyone is ready.”

After obtaining a nod from both men, the elder straightened out his suit and left the kitchen, leaving the two to simmer in the silence.

Bruce couldn’t help the soft smile as he watched his son glare in the direction Alfred left. As usual, there was nothing dark or threatening about the gesture, it was almost adorable even. It reminded him of the child that pouted when he didn’t get his way. Or even caught by the man when doing something he was explicitly told against. All that was needed was the snarky remark and the inevitable motion toward the boys room.

“Let me guess.” Bruce began, raising an amused brow. “Alfred had no idea about the car show, did he?” He already knew the answer to that, but the look on his sons face was what solidified his assumptions.

Jason grumbled, not meeting the mans gaze as he stepped past him and into the fridge. He watched his son riffle through its contents then pull out an overly sugary energy drink instead of fixing himself some coffee.

“No coffee?” The older man asked, taking a sip of his own when the boy cracked open the can.

He shook his head, fringe brushing along his forehead, the mousse that kept it in place, coming slightly undone. “Not feelin’ it.” He muttered, taking a quick side glance at his father before returning to staring ahead.

Bruce hummed, taking one last sip before clearing his throat and lightly bumping the boys arms. He looked up expectantly. “Well, how about it? Just you and me. Its been awhile since we’ve done anything together.” And by awhile the two of them knew it was before _then_.

Before Sheila and the warehouse and the Joker. All of which ended in... yeah. It was before _that_.

Jason looked up at him for a moment, expression fixed in uncertainty, gauging the mans reaction for a moment. Then, he nodded.

“Yeah, sure.”

And Bruce’s face flooded with relief as he let one of those rare, genuine grins fix itself across his face. That pang in Jason’s chest eased, but he kept his expression neutral – not entirely sure what would’ve happened if he let the twitch of his lips form into the smile he secretly wanted to display.

 

* * *

 

“We should take the Corvette.” Jason piped up as they entered the garage. The space was lined with all types of cars and the rare pickup that sat parked at its edges. Each one covered in a thin waft of dust, where as the more expensive of the lot, were covered in a breathable cotton fleece.

“I was thinking the Mercedes or maybe the Jaguar.” Bruce countered as he dragged a single finger over the rounded fender of the elegant Jaguar. Its dark color tainted with dust and grim from months - years even - of sitting within the shop.

Jason pursed his lips and glared. “You wanna drive somethin’ European to an American car show?”

Bruce shrugged. “Why not? It’s unique and eye catching.”

“It’s covered in dust and needs a wash.”

 _All_ _of_ _them_ _need_ _a_ _wash_. The man wanted to point out, but his son wasn’t having it as he marched over to one of the covered vehicles. He patted the hood with a stubborn look. One that reminded him of that same young boy when he demanded to take one of them for a drive.

“The Corvette doesn’t _and_ its faster.”

“Speed has nothing to do with it. And I’ve already decided that I’m driving,” Jason opened his mouth to retorted, but Bruce silenced him with a raised hand as he continued. “No matter what car we choose – and I’m not arguing you with that.”

The boy frowned – more like pouted, which was more adorable than Bruce cared to admit.

“But...” He deliberately paused, watching his sons expression light up slightly as he looked up at him. “We can take the Corvette.”

Jason piped up enthusiastically, but the look in his eyes was smug – like he knew he’d win this argument the whole time. “Great! I already got the keys.” He grinned, dangling them out for Bruce to take, its ring around his finger.

As his father reached for them, he snatched them back - earning an unimpressed scowl before he used his long reach to snap them away forcefully. Jason chuckled as he tore the cover off the car, dust scattering across the atmosphere and fluttering in the light peering through the windows. Its color – a vibrant candy apple red – glistened in the streams of muted yellow.

Its been years since he’s seen this car, a favorite from when he was kid. Just like yesterday, he remembers the first time he sat inside. The black leather of the upholstery, the smooth hard plastic of the center console, the shiny eight ball of the gear shaft, and the set of red fuzzy dice that hung from the rear view mirror. All of it was still here, still felt the same. The dice however, looked a little worn, their color slightly faded and their hairs stale. But the character was still there, the way she purred when she idles, the way she growls when the RPM climbs before shifting gears.

It reminded him of a lioness on the prowl, dominating the road and ready to tear apart her prey.

“Well, what are we waiting for, old man?” Jason snarked, pulling the door opens and sliding in, absently dragging his hand across the dash.

“Let’s go!”

Bruce rolled his eyes as he slid into the drivers seat and brought the beast alive. Its roar thrummed across the garage as they pulled out and cruised down the driveway. Alfred was already at the ready within the manor and opened the gate allowing the two to leave.

The glint of the dark crimson color wasn’t missed by the occupants inside.

Nor was it ignored.

 

* * *

 

They pulled into the park, the people scurrying about, some stared and gawked at the them or the car, he couldn’t tell. Nor did he give any thought to care. His attention was fixed entirely on the rows and rows of classics that were parked on the grass and shaded by those old, towering trees. He was almost overly impatient in waiting for his father to park before jumping out.

Already his attention was fixated on the sky blue color of a Chevy that was hidden among the sea of people. He couldn’t tell what the model was, nor the year, but it peaked his interest more than the girls that cooed at him when he got out.

Bruce was fussing about him waiting when he killed the engine and opened his door. Jason didn’t care and closed the door – almost slamming it, but eased it at the last second. Unlike newer cars, were their bodies and frames were made almost entirely out of plastic and fiberglass, their predecessors were made almost completely out of thick steel – making the action mostly necessary, no matter the mans protests.

Without waiting for his father, Jason scurried through the crowd and rounded the first few cars to see the classic in its full glory. His eyes widened a fraction upon seeing the beaut. With its bright, mediterranean blue color and matching interior, it stuck out like a shark in a school of fish. With her sharp curves and long, elegant body, she looked ready to stalk through sea she owned.

He knelt down, looking through the open window and noted the metallic swirls that decorated the chrome along the dash. Dragging his gaze along the upholstery, he gazed at the Impala insignia imbedded in the middle of the back seat – the same design decorating its chrome.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” A man piped up from besides him.

He should have seen it coming, it wasn’t his car and the people who owned it are most likely hovering around it like hawks. Though the intention is just to inform any passerby’s and watch for any sticky hands, it made the hairs along the back of his neck stand on end.

He stood up straight and looked over and almost up at the older man standing an arms length away.

“Uh, yeah.” He cleared his throat, running a hand through his two-toned locks out of discomfort. “SS right?” Maybe the man wasn’t going to stab him for almost touching his car.

A smile beamed across his features, scuffing his goatee and crinkling the burns that crawled up the right side of his face. “Good eye. Or did ya just read the insignia on the side?” It wasn’t a pointed question, more of joking gesture.

“Oh, uh, no.” He pointed toward the swirls along the chrome. “The effect on the chrome along the dash. That type of design is only seen on true SS’s. That’s how most collectors know if it’s a scam from an unreliable seller.”

The man nodded his head impressed, and it seemed the tension in his shoulders loosened exponentially. He was probably tired of explaining the difference between his car and the others - or correcting the ignorant.

“You know yer shit, eh kid.”

Jason felt a moment of pride as he crossed his arms and relaxed his stance. It wasn’t everyday someone complimented him on his knowledge – or anything really, besides the crude remarks from passerby’s when he was out and about by himself. Those were the days he really wished he was still declared legally dead.

“Uh, yeah. Call it a hobby of mine that I’ve takin’ too much interest in.” He chuckled.

The man gave a hearty laugh and clapped a hand on his shoulder – that sent a chill down his spine and memories he didn’t appreciate, assaulting his thoughts. He pushed them down as soon as they reared their ugly head. “You an’ me both, kid.” Then the hand was gone and the man was at arms length once more. “Just try not to touch da cars, though. Most of them folks here won’ be as carefree.”

“Yessir.” It came out as more of a murmur than careful regard. Luckily, the man didn’t seem to pick up on it and instead pointed past Jason and across the park.

“But I – an’ everyone else ‘ere – give you permission to key those bastards over there.” That accented tone was dark and dripping with unadulterated hate toward whom ever he was pointing toward.

Through curious, he looked over his shoulder and noticed the small venue of teens and their pimped up rides. Most, if not all, of them weren’t what you would call _classics_.

“Those ricers have been pissin’ me off since I got here and they’ve been nothin’ but disrespectful toward _real_ American Muscle.”

“How so?” Now his interest was peaked. He knew what ricers – or rice burners – were, who didn’t in the car community. They were the asian made brands that people ramped up to over a thousand horsepower and fitted with bright colors and obnoxious spoilers. The cars themselves were cool sometimes, the power they had was outrages and the speed even more so, but still. He got were the man was coming from. Beyond the cars, the community of punks were irritating and held complete disregard to anyone else and usually had their minds closed off to other brands.

“This is _car_ _show_ not a children’s show and tell. _Real_ men bring ladies. Those punks brought _whores_.” The man all but growled.

Jason wanted to argue that even whores are still ladies. He would know, he protected most of them in the rougher parts of town. But after seeing the rage that burned in the mans eyes, he thought it wise to keep quiet and only nodded.

“So, back to your car...”

 

* * *

 

Not even _two_ _minutes_ of pulling into the park and his son was already jumping out of the car and rushing into the crowd. There was a sharp jolt of pain that thrummed through Bruce’s heart at the idea. Something about it told him Jason didn’t really want to hang out with him, only indulged Alfred in conversation because the older man was persistent like that. Humoring the butler.

However, something also reminded him painfully of when the boy was young. How he’d always run off ahead of Bruce when he was excited for something, not having the patience to wait up on the man. Sometimes those memories were so distant and locked behind thick doors of grief, that he forgot they ever actually happened. Yet, when they made themselves known it sent him back to a time where he was actually happy and not wrung dry of emotions and filled with anger and the innate urge for justice.

It brought him back to when he first met his eldest, the way the boy beamed up at him and how _genuinely_ excited he’d been to be Batman’s first sidekick. The boy brought out certain emotions and instincts that he’s only even known from his own parents before they had passed. But it wasn’t the same, Dick wasn’t his son at the time, the boy had loving parents before Bruce.

He didn’t want to be the replacement to the boys father. 

That all changed when he ran into the skimpy little boy in the alleyway of Crime Alley. That same boy who had the _audacity_ to go about stealing the Batmobiles tires. Never in the mans life had he met someone so ballsy. If he thought about it, that was probably the very moment he was instantly attached to the boy. A young man who’d seen too much in too little years. Been exposed to the true cruelty of humanity and was still grinning like the child he was.

This was the boy that didn’t have a real father, someone who took pride in him for just _being_ himself. Someone who took care of him. Someone who taught him and mentored him. Instead, the man he had known was an abusive alcoholic and criminal who paid for his crimes. Everyone knew, child abusers didn’t last long in prison. It was when Bruce brought him home and truly _cared_ about him. He’d been the father he needed – even if Bruce wasn’t very good at it.

Jason didn’t seem to care if he was a good father or not. He didn’t drink, he didn’t threaten him, didn’t beat him. He had tried grounding him, initiating some sort of punishment like any responsible parent. But that brat had him wrapped around his little finger like no one else. He’d pucker up his lips, jut out that bottom lip and gave him the bleariest puppy dog eyes the man had ever seen – and that was Dick’s iconic move to get what he wanted. There was just something about those eyes that made the man cave. _Every_. _Single_. _Time_.

It brought a smile to his face as exited the car, slamming the door shut in the same manor as his son and locked it. He wasn’t worried if someone would take it, there was to many witnesses anyways.

Almost instantly, he was swarmed by people, cameras and phones jutted in his face as they chanted his name. He was calm and easily charmed his way into having them give him his space – which worked surprisingly well. Then shuffled through the crowd and into the general direction his son scurried off to.

He remember him perking up as he surveyed the crowd of people and rows of cars they swam around. There were to many of them to pin point which one had caught his attention, but it turns out it was the bright reflective ocean blue of the Impala sitting parked not too far from the lot.

His son was engaged in a very intuitive conversation about the vehicle with an older looking man. One of which was about Bruce’s height maybe a hair taller, but had more years given the wrinkles that crinkled his darkened skin. His most prominent feature, though, was the burn that took over half of his face and fogged the eye it surrounded.

Bruce, strangely enough, was drawn to its story and had an innate comfort toward the man. It overruled the usual paranoia that everyone and everything was bad and unforgiving. But the way the two chatted, each tossing around words that the general public probably had no daily use for or care to understand. The way his son looked slightly relaxed in the mans presence. It gave the man a type of trustworthy vibe.

Was it strange to feel trusting to a stranger on sight?

Maybe if you weren’t Batman and just a normal human with needs and wants that certain people gave off naturally.

But if you _were_ Batman and not a normal person who replaced such instincts with cold unforgiving rage, then yes. It was a strange feeling, one that prickled the hairs along the back of his neck and a distrusting scowl to fix along his features.

As the Batman persona and mindset replaced Brucie’s, he noticed the mildly relaxed stance his son held was faked. Incredibly well faked that had craftily fooled Bruce for a moment. Now, there was no mistaking the stiffness along his shoulders and the nails digging into the black leather of his coat.

He wasn’t sure what the reaction was for, maybe the off chance this man posed as a threat, or something deeper. Only something his son didn’t like about him.

He’d be an idiot to ignore the kids intuition.

Noticing as their conversation came to a moment of silence, Bruce took that as his moment to step in, placing a hand on his sons shoulder.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” He said, eyeing the man with an almost predatory glint in his aging navy orbs.

Jason jumped slightly, but instantly relaxed as he glanced at his father, the tight coil in his shoulders dissipating.

“Oh, hey, dad.” He said, but the onset of trepidation slunk into his tone. The nails creaking the expensive leather let up as he balled up his hands and tucked them under his arms.

Bruce wondered briefly if calling him _dad_ – which sent his heart fluttering with excitement – was meant true or used to distract the man.

One of which was obviously bothering his son greatly.

The man raised a brow, not bothering to hide the fact that he stared past the boy and directly at Bruce Wayne himself. He scoffed, almost disinterested. “Mr. Wayne.” He tipped his held in mocking regard.

“Fancy seein’ an individual such as yerself ‘ere.”

Bruce casually wrapped an arm around the boys shoulders and pulling him into his side. “Kiddo wanted to see the cars - and it’s been a while since I’ve been to Gotham’s Show and Shine.”

The man hummed skeptically.

“Looks like a pretty decent turn out this year?” Bruce prattled on, ignoring the mans skepticism.

He glared and muttered some inconceivable remarks before speaking up. “Suppose so.”

Bruce was about to say something else in return, but the man became coincidentally preoccupied when someone approached his car and inquired a question about its color.

With him busy, Bruce to the opportunity to push Jason into the crowd while keeping his heated – overprotective – glare on the back of the mans head.

Finally out of ear shot and view, Bruce looked over his son with a keen eye, gently taking the boys chin into his hand and turning his head this way and that. During that time, Jason only stared at him with the look of complete and utter bewilderment.

“Uh... He didn’ do anything.” Jason’s slow tone pulled him out of his trance.

He released his sons chin and placed both hands on his shoulders, feeling them tense all over again under his grasp. “Then what was that about?” His tone was harsher than he liked, making the question come across as an order or demand.

Jason shrugged. “Just friendly car talk.”

Bruce’s expression narrowed.

“It’s fine. Don’ worry about.” Jason muttered. “Just a bad feelin’.”

The look on the boys face was something that made Bruce’s brows knit in concern. Giving into a sigh, he let a smile brush his lips and patted the younger’s shoulders. “Let’s go get something to eat then. Alfred’s not here to judge us on something fried.”

Jason’s expression immediately shifted into smirk, mischief glinting in his bright orbs. The obnoxious blue of the car had reflected in his eyes, changing their greenish quality into something as blue as the sea.

“He’s still gunna find out, ya know.”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

“Of course. But he’ll still find out. He’s like Baskin Robins. And Baskin Robins always finds out.”

Bruce chuckled, pulling his boy into another side hug – one of which he didn’t stiffen at.

Maybe today was going to be a decent day. Just him and the first boy he’d ever truly called son, hanging out. It was something he hadn’t done in years and if the nagging feeling in his chest was anything to go off of, he had missed these moments. Even with the bouts of paranoia digging into the back of his mind, there was nothing in this instant that could ruin it.

Until the cars stretched out in front of them, there bright colors reflecting the rays of the midday sun...

Erupted in a fiery explosion.


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Badda Bing. Badda Boom. Chapter Two!
> 
> Just sayin, I’m not entirely happy with how this one turned out. But, it was already all written and edited and I didn’t feel like scrapping almost 6k words and rewriting it. So I didn’t.
> 
> Hopefully it turned out okay. If you’re emotional in the end, then it did its job. 
> 
> Next chapter (not sure if I’m adding an epilogue or not yet) is in the works. Should be up by the end of the week...
> 
> Maybe... crossing our fingers.
> 
> P.S. I don’t know how obvious it was in the first chapter, but Jason is declared legally alive in this story. How’s and why’s, idk. Y’all come up with that, I’m too lazy to.

_Pain thrummed across his legs, burned through his core as he felt the wind course through his body and tear along his limbs. Each second ticking by within his mind, passing through his finger tips like sand, sinking through his hands and carving into his skin. The panic that tore at his mind, chipped away his thoughts, was the only emotion driving him to go faster. The only thing forcing himself to **get** **there** **in**_ _**time**. _

_He could hear the rasping breaths through the receiver in his ear, etching themselves into his subconscious –_ even as the years passed he could still hear them in their clarity _. He tried reassuring words before, but the boy was too out of it to hear him, to process them. Even now, he hadn’t said a word, just breathing ragged breaths. Ones that were wet and clogged – just another injury the man had to mentally catalog._

_Thrusted from his thoughts, he was there._

_Staring at the sand of the landscape that trailed up to the building. Its chipped edges crumbled with the wind as the metallic door glared at him, the moons light mocking him from its reflection._

_The bike was quickly discarded, hitting the sand in a heap and sinking into its particles. His boots pounded against the ground, cape fluttering behind him, hand extended toward the warehouse._

_Another second ticked._

_“Dad...”_

_And ticked._

_“M’sorry...”_

_And ticked._

_“I lov-“_

_And ticked._

_One last time._

He jerked awake, body flaring with phantom agony. Fingers dug into the dirt and pulled at its chunks of grass, tearing it from their roots.The world felt numb, sharp spikes of pain were sure to be skirting across his form as a groan fluttered past his lips. The faint thrum of car alarms feathered along the atmosphere as fabrics and chips of paper cascade through the air, twisting and turning with the wind and peppering the earth before settling besides him.

Something was pushing against his chest as he tried to raise himself from the ground, his own hand pressing against his forehead as the electricity tore along his head. Voices fluttered into his mind, to muffled and numb to make out their words.

“Jay...” The name came out slurred, distorted even in his conscious. He felt drunk, but the pain along his body didn’t have those same sluggish movements that could differentiate such poisons. 

The voices were saying something again, the pressure on his chest became more forceful, but he easily moved pasted it and sat up. The world was blurred, colors muddled together like a modern painting. But their implications were clear as day. Everything was in ruins, cars were turned over and the people were weeping. Crimson dotted the shades of grass and fire engulfed the vehicles.

His mind was already registering the chaos of what could happen. Almost all cars ran on gas. Oil was used to liberate their components. Other fluids, like transmission, break, power steering, coolant, and such – in new cars or not – were extremely flammable. Just from the few that were blurred in his vision, they looked about ready to blow. People were going to get hurt, his son was going to-

“Jason!” His mind snapped him back into reality. His vision slowly clearing, making everything less muddled and confusing. But his ears still rung continuously, distorting the concerned voices of whom ever was surrounding him, trying to usher him into laying down once more. He couldn’t do that, not with his son missing.

He jerked his head toward the voices, none of them looked anything like his boy. One of them was a female and the other was a bald man. Whipping his head around, he frantically searched the area, unbeknownst to him, constantly calling his sons name. With his body moving on his own, he was walking – limping, but the pain a distant after thought – through the crowd, through the panic rush of people.

_He fumbled through the rubble, tearing the concrete chunks away and shouting the boys name. The cold night of the desert seeping into his skin as the gloves along his hands were sanded away by the repetitive notion. He couldn’t find him. He couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t see him.  
_

_Until he did.  
_

_“Jason!”_ His voice felt horsed to his own ears, as he saw the turned over car, its green color contrasting against the scuffed shimmer of black leather. Tears pricked his orbs as shoved his way through the people, and was instantly on his knees besides the bod- _boy_. Someone else was there was well, they were saying something. Shouting orders towards others as their hands were wrapping around the boys neck.

Bruce surged with panic stricken rage and latched onto the persons wrists. They looked at him with shock, expression quickly morphed into understanding. Their lips began to move but he couldn’t make out their words, couldn’t understand their silence. They – the man, with his crinkled expression and stressed lines of age along his features – had nodded, a relieved smile on his features. But Bruce didn’t understand.

Why was he smiling?

Why did he look unconcerned?

Couldn’t he see! _  
_

_There’s no reason to smile over a dead child?  
_

_“...alive...”_ The word burst through the violent ringing, dragging him out of his traumatized stupor.

_He stared at the body. The bruises that climbed through the uniform. The dark splotches that stained is color and tainted those freckles._

He groaned. A soft pained sound that tore Bruce from the man down to the boy. His hand shifted, bawling into a fist before unclenching and resting on the charred strands of grass. The man was instantly pointing at a few others then at the car. The words were lost on his ears as all he could do was stare at the boy. At his son.

_He was too late. His son was cradled against his chest and all he could do was stare. Stare at the broken mess of his boy, the bones that pricked through his skin. The blood that welt up and trailed along his tone and dribbled to the ground and the ever growing puddle. The only thing he was capable of doing in the moment was hold his son closer to his chest. Imagine the heartbeat that thrummed through the R of his uniform. Feel the intake and exhale of air as he breathed against his neck.  
_

_**As** **if** **he** **was** **just** **asleep**.  
_

_But he wasn’t.  
_

_And the dead don’t wake up.  
_

Hands were clamped onto his shoulders as someone shook him, eyes narrowed in determination. The man was saying something again and this time, he tried to focus on those words. On that voice and not the memories tearing across his mind like a raging wildfire full of grief and pain.

“We need to pull him out from under the car.” The man said, and he looked half temped to slap Bruce across the face to get him to understand. “He’s still alive, but he needs _your_ help to stay that way. Do you understand?!” The man shook him again, his voice thick with steel and determination.

Another strangled groan came from the boy, and that’s all it took to snap Bruce into action, a dark scowl fixed along his features. He could feel something pull and flake against his forehead when his brows knitted, but he didn’t care.

He gave the man a nod and stood up to his feet, hands placed on the fender of the overturned car.

“Alright everyone, on three you lift and I’ll pull him out!” The man ordered, sliding his hands under the boys arms.

“Wait!” A woman snapped. “What about spinal damage, with him on his stomach like that-“

“I’m a paramedic, miss. I know what I’m doing.” The man almost growled, glaring at the woman who stood off to the side. She looked too thin, too small to be of any real help and the panic on her face was icing on that cake. He didn’t need the distraction, so he told her in kind. “Now. If you aren’t going to help; _fuck_ _off_.”

Bruce now understood how the man was so calm in this situation, whereas him – the goddamn Batman – was freaking out.

“Alright. On three! One – two – three!”

Bruce, and everyone able, lifted the car up. If he wasn’t in such a vulnerable and panicked state, Bruce would’ve been able to do this himself. No matter, he was immensely grateful for rarer parts of humanity to band together and help his son.

Once it was lifted off the ground, the man was able to quickly pull his son out from under it – the boy giving a stifled whimper in return.

“Alright, drop it.” The man ordered and the people did, the sound of the hood creaking under its own weight, lost to their ears.

Bruce was instantly by his sons side, hands hovering over uncertainly. He knew he had to do something. Needed to figure out what was wrong, why his boy wasn’t moving. It reminded him too much of – too much of _that_.

He shook his head, narrowed his eyes, but didn’t do anything to help his son – not with the man stopping him.

“We can’t risk moving him just yet, I don’t know the extent of the damage.” He prattled, his fingers gently pressing along the boys spine.

There was a muffled groan in response to the prodding.

Instantly, Bruce was there, smoothing down the boys two toned locks. Jason seemed to lean into the gesture for only a moment until the man pressed down along his side and he let out a strangled cry.

Bruce’s hand shot back for a moment, it felt sticky and warm but he ignored it, even if the feeling sent his mind into a frenzy with tainted thoughts and disjointed memories.

“What the hell?” Bruce snapped at the man, a forgotten rage seeping into his words and darkening his vision.

The man looked up with a knitted brow, hands resting on the boys side. The tone of Bruce’s voice didn’t deter his own as he went on. “He doesn’t have any spinal damage but I wouldn’t put it past a few broken ribs and other superficial injuries. Unfortunately, I don’t know what the internal damage is. He needs a hospital no doubt, but – from what I can deduce – he isn’t critical.”

That lifted a type of weight from Bruce’s shoulders he didn’t know was truly there. His son wasn’t okay, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t in any immediate danger. He took this moment to gently turn him over and pull him into his lap as best as he could, cradling the boy in his arms.

Th younger made no protest against it besides light, incomprehensible grumbles and the soft hiss that went through clenched teeth.

The man place a hand on his shoulder, taking a glance at Jason’s pinched features then at Bruce.

“He’s going to be okay.” He breathed.

Bruce nodded and glanced up at the man. “Thank you.”

Once the words left his lips, the man was gone, tending to the other cries of agony that filled the atmosphere with grief.

“ _Dad_...” There was a lisp of pain feathering across the word as teal orbs fluttered past those dark lashes.

Bruce carted his fingers through his sons bangs, trying his best to ignore those beats of sweat, the trails of crimson that cascade down the side of his face, and the soot that stained his cheeks.

“I’m here, kiddo. I’m here.”

A hum brushed the cracks of his lips as his head lulled to the side, resting it against his fathers chest.

_Cold. Lifeless. There was nothing that thrummed against his chest. No snark of character that came from that voice. No hand that grasped at his cape or impatient one over his mouth when he went about and talked to much. No resistance when he cradled the boy against his body and rested their foreheads together._

The prickle of unease scuttled down his spine, form tensing like a spring. He whipped his attention up - memories quickly forgotten - and scanned the crowd. Something was off, more so than the rush of people that coughed through the ash and the smoldering of cars that were still burning through faint flames.

The dark of his orbs scanned the area as intently as Batman during patrol, tearing through the disjointed mayhem. Bruce looked into the crowd and from the patch of people, those of which limped, wept, and screamed in the fit of agony, were a set of eyes that radiated with pulsing insanity.

Without the red lips, the white paint, and vibrant attire, Jack Napier looked like an ordinary man. An ordinary man fitting for the chaos that drowned its crowd.

Subconsciously, Bruce held his son closer, ignoring the whimpers he breathed and the blood he bled. He tired to hide the boys face into his chest, but the master of mayhem already knew.

_And that pale smile only widened._

 

* * *

 

Electric tendrils of pain wrapped around his body. It sparked across his nerves and rippled through his veins. Everything hurt. From the pressure against his chest to each twitch of his toes, it was as if his body was going through the motions of death. Replaying the phantom pain of his limbs and invoking its forgotten chill that seeped into his body.

Screams rang across the air as the thick stench of iron tainted its atmosphere. Dirt clung to his cheeks, its particles digging into his skin, scrapping away its layers and scarring its tone.

“ _Come_ _on_ , _pumpkin_. _Don’t_ _be_ _like_ _that_.”

Beeping assaulted the sharp ringing that thrummed against his mind. He tried to vanquish it, his hands automatically going up to cover his ears, but he couldn’t feel their nails digging into his skull, tugging at his strands. The sound only grew louder, more agonizing as his breathing climbed into the serge of panic.

Nothing made sense, why was it getting louder, why was his chest burning, why did everything _hurt_.

_The_ _sound_ _crackled_ _through_ _the_ _air_ _as_ _he_ _felt_ _the_ _bone_ _snap_ _beneath_ _the_ _assault_.

His body twitched sending his thoughts spiraling in a whirlpool of pain as white blossomed across his mind. It hurt. Like death was carting her nails across his body, whispering nothingness into his ear. Her cold lips brushing the underside of his jaw and trailing down onto his chest. The pain worsened then, as his lungs tried to expand, take in that much needed breath that his body and mind craved. It was then that the sound shrieked, nerves alight with agony.

“ _Tell_ _me_ _now_. _Which_ _one_ _hurts_ _the_ _most_.”

A whine escaped his lips as his lids scrunched and brows tightened. Something pulled the skin along his forehead, the feeling sharp and uncomfortable – but not like the fire that tore across his form. His hands balled into fists, the material underneath at its mercy. Another pull against his skin, this time is was along his hand, this time it hurt. Hurt enough for him to subconsciously wince at the action. 

“ _Forehand_?”

His head jerked to the side, fire blooming to light in his veins, flaring the pain that tore at his mind. The beeping picked up even higher, alerting the rational part of his mind. Such a sound was bound to bring anyone. Anyone who could hear it and anyone meant-

“ _Or_ _backhand_?”

His body shot up, orbs assaulted by the dimmed yellow lights above and white fires of agony sent him crashing back down, arms wrapping around his stomach and torso. That only made it worse, the aches in his body flaring up and old scars sent alight. The sound kept steady, the constant irritating obnoxious noise reverberating off the walls of the room.

“Jason?” A voice skidded into his thoughts, drowning out the noise for a moment as they mingled together.

A hand, warm heavy -  _fingers_ _digging_ _into_ _his_ _cheeks_ , _nails_ _pressed_ _beneath_ _his_ _eyes_ – settled onto his shoulder. His rational mind knew it wasn’t meant to hurt. It was meant to be reassuring, there. But all it did was send those memories spiraling back to life, making him pull away – the pain in his body be damned. It only stayed, followed him as he attempted to move away, get out of _his_ grasp.

“Jason. Stop. You need to calm down.” The voice said – _demanded_ , _ordered_ , _belittled_ , _criticized_.

It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t stop the panic that had seized his body, not with him here. He knew he was here, there couldn’t be any other explanation for the pain his body was feeling. The emotions that tore along his thoughts and twisted rationality into a weapon against himself.

He couldn’t even help it when he started to shake and quiver. The tremors shook him to the core and he tried to shrink into himself, make it so he wasn’t that big of a target. That had worked when he was a kid, it saved his life more times than he could count.

_Except_ _for_ _the_ _one_ _time_ _it_ _didn’t_.

“Jay-lad?” Now that voice was calmed, twisted with emotions he hadn’t heard in years. There has always been rage to replace the grief he knew the voice had dealt with.

Slowly, his body uncurled, muscles screaming at him to stop moving and rest. Those dark lashes fluttered open and deluded teal orbs blinked up through the haze of agony and focused on the figure besides him. Those broad shoulders, pinched expression, and navy orbs that could see through all.

“ _Dad_...” He breathed, not even sure it the word came out with how quiet it sounded – even to himself.

The pinched expression changed and a soft, _relieved_ smile replaced it. “Hey, Jay.”

Then his fathers fingers were brushing through his bangs, his thumb brushing away the tear that had escape the corner of his eye. And where there was one, more were to come. By then, it was like a dam within his mind had broke and the tears only flowed through. They trailed down his cheeks, a hiccup flaring up his chest. Then, subconsciously he lifted his arms up ever so slightly.

He hoped the man understood what it meant. What he wanted to drown out the pain and the memories that had him hysterical.

Bruce instantly took that as exactly what his son implied it to be and swallowed him in a hug. One that didn’t aggravate the boys injuries any more than they were. The sob that escape the boys lips was everything he needed to tighten it, hand holding his head against his shoulder and fingers carting through those dark locks.

“It’s okay, Jay-lad. Everything’s gunna be okay. I’m here. I’m right here.” He soothed, a promise lacing those words.

He’d lost his boy once. He’d be _damned_ to have it happened again.

 

* * *

 

“Bruce?” There was a light rap of knuckles against the doorframe.

He pulled his head up from the nest of black hair and glanced at the doorway. Standing in its threshold was his eldest, concern etched into his cerulean orbs. He didn’t move, hand pressed against the wooden frame, seeming hesitant to intervene.

Bruce nodded toward the chair besides the hospitals bed – one of which he was surely surprised was big enough to fit himself and the tallest of his children – exhaustion fitting itself along his mind as he cradled his son closer.

“Is he...” Dick began, gesturing to his younger brother as he sat in the chair.

Bruce gave a slow, methodical nod. “Yeah. He fell asleep just a bit ago.” He whispered, glancing down at the sleeping boys face – thumb running over the purple bruise along his jaw and climbing up his cheek.

“How is he?” Dick’s tone was equally, if not quieter than his fathers as he reached over and took his brothers free hand, his own thumb running over those cracked and blue knuckles. There was a certain fondness that fixed along his features, one that overrode the obvious concern for a moment. One of which didn’t last long as he cataloged Jason’s injuries.

Bruce sighed, breath brushing across ebony strands, those of which looked to be whitening at their roots. It pitched his brows into a concerned scowl, but he shoved the thought away momentarily.

“He’ll be fine. Some second degree burns on his hands and neck. Laceration on his forehead. A single cracked rib and some bruising all over – most of which are focused on his upper back. Along with a mild concussion.” He let out a breath, noticing the relief flood his oldest sons face. “He’ll be cranky for a few days, but he’ll pull through just fine.”

Dick beamed a light smile. Apparently, just like Bruce himself, the eldest thought the worse especially with how frantic he sounded over the phone. Seeing him now only confirmed the theory, but his shoulders looked less tense than they did upon entering. He took that as a win.

“Just to let you know,” Dick began, an area of irritation and annoyance replacing the airy tranquility across his tone. “Gordon is just outside the room. He’s wanting a statement regarding the attack.” He paused, glancing up to his father as the man looked at him expectantly. “And he doesn’t want to talk to _Brucie_ either.”

Of course. Bruce could almost mentally sigh at the obvious implication.

James Gordon was a man of many talents, his position at the precinct was proof of such. But his ability to read people and catalog their quirks and characteristics was something that made him a threat to this city and her crime syndicate. Knowing the man since he was young, Bruce wasn’t surprised the detective was able to quickly deduce who was under the Batman persona. The disapproval was even bigger proof those first few nights when he dawned the costume and pledged himself an instrument of justice.

“I’ll talk to him in a bit.” Bruce started, dragging a hand across his face.

“Or you could do it now.” Dick said. “I can watch Jason for a few minutes.”

Bruce was about to protest – his mind demanded it so – but there was another light knock against the rooms doorframe.

Standing in its threshold, hand tucked in his trench coat was the man himself. Jim looked as ragged as any man his aged, but the tale-tell signs of stress and exhaustion were evident in the bags under his eyes and the notch between his brows.

He knew the man wanted him to stay with his son – he was a father of his own after all – but there was a time constraint, especially with the way the detective tapped his watch.

Grumbling lightly, Bruce tired his best to nimbly extract himself from the death grip the boy had on his shirt. With Dick there, the two were able to maneuver Jason were as, instead of clutching onto Bruce, he was clutching onto a pillow, face buried into its cloth.

He stretched, back creaking and grinding uncomfortably but releasing the built tension and lessening the stiffness. He looked down at his boy – his brows tight with discomfort but looking slightly peaceful, even if it was only minimally – and brushed calloused fingers through his sons bangs. The motion enticing a relaxed expression to blossom over the boys features.

Dick patted his shoulder with a reassuring smile and returned to the chair, hand entwined with his brothers. If the younger was awake, he’d complain indefinitely about the gesture. Maybe even threaten bodily harm toward the elder. There was a sharp jolt of pain that plucked at Bruce’s chest at the memory. Even if several years had gone by, his son growing up without him in height and personality – there were still some things that hadn’t changed. Some things he was witness to, and one of those was the lack of change in his responses and his ever snarky and sarcastic character.

He prayed – to whomever was listening – that those things wouldn’t change.

 

* * *

 

A light drizzle trickled down from the dark clouds overhead. Their looming rolls crowding the night sky and the never ending galaxy of starts that painted its canvas.

Nights such as these always brought a smile to his face. Always a type of calmness that blanketed the city. A beauty that only the natives could enjoy even as her criminal empires ruled her streets and drenched her in blood.

However, even in times of great peace, there are always times of great war. That was the type of ignorance he didn’t need tampering his thoughts. Just as the weather trailed across the city. This was only the calm before the storm, and he didn’t know what type of storm was in the brews.

Jim was besides him, unlit cigarette resting in his lips as he retrieved his lighter – the silver one that he kept tucked away in the pocket of his slacks. He flicked it open, bringing the flame to life as he lit the stick, then tucked it back away. He took a deep breath, swirling the taste into his lungs before exhaling. The smoke curled against the cold of the air, climbing through the rain before disbursing into nothingness.

“You know who it was?” There was no icebreaker into the conversation, that was the type of men both Bruce Wayne and James Gordon were.

Bruce sighed, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Yeah. I do.”

Jim raised a brow. He took a moment for the younger to explain. When he didn’t, he went on, a lick of irritation brushing his words. “If I wanted to play twenty questions will you, I’d watch daytime television. So, care to elaborate, or do I have to keep guessing – even when its almost obvious who we’re dealing with?”

“Joker.”

Jim almost choked on his cigarette. That wasn’t who he was thinking of and the expression on his face was obvious to that testament.

“Joker?” Jim bland faced. “Are you sure? I mean, yeah, the maniacs running about, but...”

“I saw him. That’s how I know.” Bruce almost snapped, but kept up with the professionalism.

“But witnesses say-“

“He wasn’t in costume. He didn’t have the makeup, the outfit, nothing. But there was no mistaking who I saw.” His palms ached under the pressure his nails were causing as he dug them into his skin.

Jim’s eyes narrowed as he took another, long drag. “It makes sense though. The car show, the crowds, the explosion. If he wanted the world to see this, then he got his damn wish.”

“But does anyone know who actually did this?” Bruce let the growl seep into his tone. “Why cause such a scene if he didn’t want everyone to know who caused it?”

Jim thought on it for a moment, playing the ideas in his head as he tried to figure it out. Nothing in particular was jumping out at him. Nothing about the motive, the profile that was the Joker. The man was a showman, loving the spotlight like a ring master in a circus. It was everything to him, and to go as an ordinary man didn’t make sense unless...

“Did he see you?” Jim piped up.

Bruce glanced at him for a moment eyes burning with hyper intelligence. “Yeah. He was looking directly at me.”

Jim hummed, adjusting his glasses. “You know we’ve always had a theory that he knows exactly who the Batman is. But he’s never gone after _said_ person because he’d rather fight with the man in the mask than the one behind it.” Jim finished his cigarette as the last puff of it echoed in the oncoming rain. “Do you think he’s finally going after _him_?”

“No.” Bruce shook his head lightly. “He told me himself that he didn’t care about the man behind the mask. But when we made eye contact he wasn’t just-“

He stopped, eyes widening in sudden realization.

“Bruce?” Jim asked tentatively, dropping his bud on the ground and grinding his out with the toe of his shoe.

Bruce stared at Jim with a dawning horror.

“ _Jason_.”

 

* * *

 

She kept to her work, fingers racing across the keyboard as she filed paperwork into its system. After the long night hours, her eyes began to water behind her glasses, wrists slightly cramping, but keeping at it. There was a pat on her shoulder and suddenly a coffee shoved under her nose. The smell a blessing. 

“You should really chill there, girl.” Said the familiar voice of her coworker, hand clamped onto her shoulder.

Taking the coffee with a thanks, she took a much needed sip.

“No problem. Looks like you needed it, along with a vacation.”

She shrugged, setting the foam cup besides the piles of patient records and leaning tower of miscellaneous work. “Suppose so. But, you know what they say; work hard, play hard.”

The look in return was a mixture of confusion and amusement. Her coworker shook their head with a chuckle, then pointed ahead and toward the automatic doors of the lobby. “Whatever, either way, looks like you’ve got company. I’ll be back in a few to see if you’ve passed out yet.”

“Yeah yeah. Love you too.”

“I know you do!”

And then they were gone, leaving the woman back to her piles of work and slow, ticking hours. Besides that, the coffee was a blessing, one that sent some much needed energy back into her body. Clearing her throat she tapped away, only briefly looking up to the individual who hunched over her desk and leered into her space.

“Can I help you?” She asked, attention solely focused on screen of her computer.

“Yes,” They began, fingers fiddling with a discarded pen. The absent clicking grinding against her ears. “I’m here to see a _Jason_ _Todd_.”

She paused, looked up at the person for a moment, disregarding the clicking, then back down at her work. “And what is your affiliation?”

“Family.” They said, giving a dramatic shrug as a smile – much to friendly to be anything but creepy – scraped across their pale complexion.

“I’m his uncle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no. Did I end it on a cliffhanger again? Whoops.
> 
> Sorry not sorry. <3
> 
> -Rhoverty


	3. Promise Me This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tis the end. At last. To be honest, I had plans on posting this hours ago but I had to go to work. Then I watched the Super Bowl. THEN I watched golf. Yeah... 
> 
> Moving on... 
> 
> Just want to say THANK YOU to everyone who’s stuck with me this far and had shown so much love to this story. Your comments were having me grin like the biggest idiot each time I got one. Unfortunately, it was really hard to respond to them when even my sarcastic remarks would give something away.
> 
> Nonetheless, this is the last chapter and I’m rather proud of it. Had lots of plans for it beforehand, but that all got tossed out then window when I forgot about Tim...
> 
> Brain: Did you forget you tagged Tim?  
> Me: dId YoU fOrGeT yOu TaGgEd TiM! *Flips table*
> 
> ...anyways~ On with the story!
> 
> Side Note - Mentions of self harm. Tags have been updated.

“Go Fish.”

Dick grumbled, drawing a card from the deck and adding it to his pile of every growing lack of pairs.

“Do you have any Kings?” Jason asked, adjusting his own smaller patch.

Dick riffled through, a pout along his lips as he grudgingly pulled out a king and handed it to his younger brother. Jason took it with a light smirk while rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

Another set of cards were added to Jason’s ever growing pile of pairs, and Dick could only glare at him with despair.

“Five bucks says you’re cheating.” Dick huffed, figuring out what card – out of his many – to ask from the younger.

“Don’ think you can actually cheat in _Go_ _Fish_...” Jason murmured in response while a yawning.

Dick glanced up at him, orbs glinting with mild concern. The younger had awoken about an hour past, but his haggard look and the bags beneath his eyes had said otherwise.

A nurse had came a while ago, fussing about his condition and pestering him that _No_ , _you_ _aren’t_ _fine_. While he responded in kind. _Fuck_ _off_. _Yes_ , _I_ _am_.

Dick had apologized on his brother behalf – God knows he wouldn’t do it himself, the brat – and did his best to prevent the nurse from overdosing him on painkillers that didn’t even work. She could only growl out her instructions then quickly left, leaving the boys to themselves. Dick gave into a sigh, as he sat at the edge of his brothers bed and pulled out that deck of cards.

Since then, the two have kept quiet, only pointing jabs and expressing certain frustrations to the game in hand.

“I win.” Jason announced monotonously, tossing the last set of cards into his pile and sat back against the pillows.

Dick stared in objective horror, turning his attention to the cards in his hands and the ones sitting on the bed. But he wasn’t having it quite yet.

“I still have a chance!” Dick snapped determinedly, slapping his personal deck onto the mattress.

“You have six pairs. I have fourteen.” Jason countered, lazily waving his hand toward the two piles.

Dick riffled through his own and counted up the pairs in sheer determination to not loose. But, Jason was right, he had six, and – going through his brothers – the younger had fourteen.

“ _Bullshit_!”

“Not my fault you suck.”

“Whatever, I gotta go to the bathroom anyways.” He grumbled, sliding off the bed and glancing at his brother. He had sunk into the pillows, pulling the blanket up to his chin and looking ready to slink into the bliss of sleep.

Dick leaned over, hand about ready to brush through that white curtain that covered his forehead...

Until it was harshly slapped away.

Dick hissed and cradled his hand, rubbing the sing away.

Bottom lip out and eyes wide, Dick pouted at his younger brother. He tried again, but this time Jason snatched his wrist. It was a move so quick and unexpected that Dick let out a surprised yelp and tried to yank his arm free from the light grasp.

Jason allowed it, letting a dark chuckle escape him as he looked through the drag of hair across his eyes and up at his brothers shocked expression.

“Still need to go to the bathroom?” The younger mused with an arched brow, the scar striking through it crinkling.

Dick glared at him, an embarrassed blush speckling his cheeks. “No. Just startled me.”

Jason turned over to his left side – relieving the burning pressure on his ribs - and faced the window, hoping to slip back into some sort of peaceful slumber. “Scaredy-cat.”

Dick protested for a moment then huffed. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Jason hummed and snuggled under the covers further.

Heading toward the door, Dick glanced over his shoulder, observing the light rise and fall of his baby brothers form as he caught the Z’s that he desperately needed. Sighing, he exited the room, closing its door behind him.

 

* * *

 

The phone in his pocket rang. Something jingly and obnoxious that made the heads within the hallway turn in his direction. He waved them off, pulling the phone out and answered its unknown number.

“Hello.” He piped up cheerily, smile morphing into a grin.

“ _I_ _did_ _what_ _you_ _asked_. _Let_ _her_ _go_.”

“Ah, yes. I almost forgot. I did promise you that didn’t I?” He replied, ignoring the shakiness of the tone on the other end.

“ _Please_. _I_ _did_ _everything_ _you_ _want_. _Just_ _let_ _her_ _go_!”

“Never thought of you as the begging type, my boy. Eh, suppose it’s the desperation.” He chuckled, quietly enough for the people around to look away. He shuffled into the empty elevator and pressed the appropriate floor number, watching the doors close with a certain fascination.

“ _If_ _I_ _have_ _to_ _I_ _will_. _I’ll_ _beg_ _you_. _Just_ _let_ _my_ _little_ _girl_ _go_!”

“Here’s the thing, buddy ole pal.” He began, rummaging into his pocket to find the pen hidden within. He pulled it out and absently rolled it in his fingers. “Ya see, you went against something I very specificity said not to do.”

“ _I_ _don’t_ -“

“You scared ‘em.” He said simply, glancing at the number above the door as they reached his floor.

“ _What_?”

“You reminded him of someone he doesn’t like.” The grin dwindled into a broad smile as the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.

“ _How_? _I_ _talked_ _to_ _the_ _kid_ , _just_ _like_ _you_ _asked_. _He_ _looked_ _fine_ _I_ _don’t_ _understand_ _how_ _I_ _scared_ _him_.”

Brows twitched into a scowl and displeasure shaped his smile into a frown. He stepped out and headed down the hallway, ignoring the strange looks from the staff that shuffled by.

“Doesn’t matter. But, since you were _such_ a great actor, you can have your little girl back. But...” He ran his tongue over yellowing teeth and let that grin twist across his face once more. Letting the silence drag along for a time until he chuckled – a dark demented chortle that sent a nurse speed walking away and a doctor to give him some room when passing by.

“She won’t have you.”

Before the response came from the other end, a sharp shriek tore into his ears. The putter of guns was muffled through the speaker and downing out the mans agony.

He stood before the door, and waited for a moment of silence to come from the phone.

“Tootles.” And he hung up, stuffing the phone back into his pocket.

He took a gander toward the room number, then down each end of the hall. Boy blunder had left the moment he stepped from the elevator and went off to who knows where. That gives this reunion some time to be savored. He reached back into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a tube of dark, blood red lipstick – then dragged it across his lips sloppily.

Without a soul in sight, he peered open the door and stepped inside, movements as quiet as a mouse. With the same ease, he closed it behind him, twisting the knobs lock. He padded over in silence until he was hovering over the bed.

It had been sometime since he’s seen the boy without the bright red helmet and obnoxious attitude. Having him asleep – and in _his_ presence no doubt – was a strange occurrence. Especially if he wasn’t the one responsible for knocking him out.

A malicious grin contorted across his lips, pulling at the makeup caked up to his cheeks and seeping into the cracks of his lips. Reaching his hand out, he carted his fingers through those wavy ebony locks. His ungloved, almost white hands, contrasting against their strands.

Surprisingly enough, the boy didn’t do anything besides _lean_ _in_ to the gesture. A movement that made that grin across the mans face widen until it hurt.

“Sleep little birdie,” He cooed softly, voice scratching and grading against the ears – yet quiet enough that the younger slept soundlessly. 

“Don’t say a word,” He pulled out the pen – an elegant tool with resin swirls in its handle and metallic shine along its clip – and took the end of it in between his teeth. With a quick and muted jerk, the cap came off revealing a sharp, pointed blade.

“Joker’s gunna get you a mockingbird.” His fingers tightened in the boys hair, enough to entice a grimace and feather soft groan. He shifted slightly, but not waking – until those white digits were digging sharp nails into the side of his head.

Those teal orbs were quick to open through scrunched lashes, a light haze of pain fluttering into their color.

The transition from confusion to terror, was a glorious affair that will forever remain in both the boys and the madman’s memories. Joker even allowed his grin to widen – painfully so. Watching as the boy processed who was standing over him, then struggle. It was as enjoyable as it was the first time they played this game.

However, Joker wasn’t in the mood to deal with rowdy birds, and when the second one started to panic and attempt to fight back, he did the only he could to cease the trouble.

He lifted the boys head up by his hair and slammed it back down. The younger let out a stifled yelp, hand reaching up to grasp the maniacs wrist in an attempt to gander release. It was futile as Joker lifted his head up again, grip tightening to the point it pulled out strands, and bashed it back into the mattress.

Another yelp, and more struggling, but it was obvious something was holding the boy back – he was in the hospital for a reason, Joker supposed. And quickly glanced around his form, keeping his snarls and terrified quips muffled in the pillow.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.” The blade waved about pointing toward certain areas that may hurt more or less than the other, but finally came to rest near the boys exposed side. The Joker grinned menacingly before balling up his fist and punching him in the set of bruised and broken ribs.

He let out a muffled scream that was quickly vanquished into stifled whimpers. The response wasn’t what Joker had hoped for, but he took the opportunity nonetheless. With the wayward bird temporary subdued, Joker lifted his head back up – drinking in the pained expression blossoming across his features – and pulled it to the side, exposing the left side of his face.

“Ya know... I’ve always been proud of you, kiddo.” Joker began, a dark chuckle seeping into his words as he lifted the blade up and held it over the fuzz along the boys cheek.

“You were the birdie that broke daddy.” He swatted away a flapping hand, lifting up and pressing his knee into the boy’s stomach – or more peculiarly, the right side of his body. He was quick to stop the struggling for a moment as a pained wheeze escape him.

“The one who almost sent him into breaking his _greatest_ rule.” The blade hovered against his cheek as Joker slowly brought it down and pierced the skin. Jason let out a ragged breath, brows tight and expression scrunched as a hiss slipped past clenched pearls.

The blade dragged through each layer until beads of blood turned into gentle rivulets of crimson and trailed down his cheeks, tapping onto the white fabric of the pillow. It dragged until it curled, and soon Joker was flicking it out – crimson flung from the blade and speckling white locks - and bringing it just below his eye.

“And I always autograph my best pieces.” And he dug the tip into the boys cheek, ripping it across the top.

Jason whimpered, trying to pulled his head free, but Joker only tighten his hold and shook. A yelp escaped the younger’s lips, features still tight with pain as it tore across his face and pinching into his skull.

“Now, now. I’ve only just begun. You can’t go about ruining a mans hard work.” Joker giggled, then leaned closer, applying more weight against those abused ribs.

Jason growled, letting a small sliver of character flutter back into his person. Even as the mark across his cheek crinkled and crimson trailed down his features like bloodied tears.

“ _Fuck_ _you_.” He seethed, voice tight with agony but venom still dripped from those words. Joker grinned, pulling the boys head up a little higher and bringing the knife to hover over his lips. Jason winced at the action and attempted to pull free once more. It was pointless, and the man was leaning closer, essentially trapping him in place – not that he wasn’t already before.

The madman leered inches from his form. Putrid breath frothing across his face as those rancid teeth split across his distorted features. Terror clung to his veins, that sharp dread of helplessness digging into his thoughts. Just like the fifteen-year-old who lay across those warehouse grounds and at the mercy of a monster.

The same one that brought the blade in between his lips and tugged it against its corner.

“How about we put a _smile_ on that face.”

 

* * *

  

His heart thrummed in his chest as he raced through the hallway. Staff jumped out of his way, and bystanders hugged the wall. He attempted the elevator but shook his head and sprinted toward the stairs, tearing up each step before ripping open the door to its appropriate floor. A set of nurses almost hit the floor as he ran past, sending papers flying and scattering across the tiles.

They had paid it no mind, only jumping back into their conversation – oblivious of the monster that lurked their halls.

Just a few doors down, Dick stepped out from the perceived bathroom, rubbing his hands together. He glanced up at the sudden commotion from just down the hall and met the frantic orbs of his father.

“Bruce?” He raised a brow, unsure what to interpret from the mans hysteria. “Everything okay?”

“Jason!” Was all the man could express before sprinting past his eldest and skidding to a halt at his sons door. His hand latched around its handle and he tried to open it – but it came up locked. Panic tore across his mind and he was jerking the handle this way and that.

“Joker! Don’t you **fucking** _touch_ _my_ _son_!” Bruce screamed into the door, slamming his shoulder into its wood. It didn’t budge and just beyond his reach he could hear those demented giggles. Those same ones that haunted his dreams and thrummed against his skull every waking chance.

Out of desperation, he growled and the handle in his grasp bent in his hand. He slammed his shoulder into the door again and again and _again_ , until finally there was give. One last time and the hinges snapped, sending the door swinging forward and him into the room. An untapped rage was trembling across his body, shaking his fists and he tore into the room, the thought of death hanging in the atmosphere. As soon as he ripped the curtains away, Joker was nowhere in sight. The only thing left in his wake was a very terrified little boy.

Those teal orbs wide and tears cascade down his cheek, one of which was now a plaster of crimson and criss cross of pain. He tried to ignore the marks and the... _it_ that was carved into his sons cheek. Quickly jumped out of his panic and Bruce raced toward his son.

Wrapping him in his arms and burying his head into his chest. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m right here.” Bruce soothed, fingers combing through those tussled ebony locks. A muffled sob rumbled against his chest and hands clutched his jacket, nails digging into its expensive attire.

“Bruce?” Dick was in the doorway, stance shaking and holding onto the broken frame for dear life. “I didn’ – I just – I’m sorry. If I’d just – I wouldn’ have...”

In the mist of comforting one traumatized son, he looked up to the meet the eyes of another. The guilt swimming through his gaze was enough to deduce the agony the elder felt about leaving. Even if it was just for a moment.

“It’s okay, Dick.” Bruce tried, still carting his fingers through his younger son, while trying to convey forgiveness toward his eldest. “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame this one yourself.”

_Don’t_ _take_ _that_ _guilt_ _upon_ _your_ _already_ _heavy_ _shoulders_.

“But Bruce I-”

“Don’t.” He snapped, silencing his son almost instantly before mentally screaming at himself to control his emotions.

“Just...” He looked up, meeting those cerulean orbs, and with as much determination and rage as the mans mind could put into words, growled.

“ _Find_ _him_.”

 

* * *

 

His fingers danced along the keys, its sound echoing across the cave rhythmically. He blinked, a long drawn out motion that dragged his head down before he snapped it back up. Without looking away from the work his mind occupied, his hand groped the surface before wrapping around a mug – its contents gone cold long ago. No matter the the foulness such a drink was prone to being cold, he took an extended gulp, letting the coffee do its work and perking him up.

He set the empty mug back down, ignoring the way it tapped an empty can and sent it clinking against the hard floor. He jumped slight at its echo, but didn’t turn his attention away from the screen. Fingers dragging across the console at agonizingly slow speeds. His head feeling like lead as eyes drooped once more. He jerked up again, just into time to notice the presence to his left.

“Timmy,” It was Jason, arms crossed and staring at him with a raised brow – the patch on his cheek stock white against the blackness of the cave. “What are you still doing up?”

Tim turned his attention back to the screen, undisturbed as his fingers still went across the keys – even without him looking. “Working.” Came the soft-spoken words, ones he wasn’t even sure could be heard.

Given the elders unimpressed expression, he had heard them loud enough. A sigh brushed his lips as he scrubbed at his eyes, brows scrunched.

“Tim, go to bed. You’re exhausted.” Jason pointed out.

Tim, being the stubborn individual he was, looked at him with a frown and shook his head.

“I’m not arguing with you on this.”

“But he’s still out there. Bruce said-“

“I don’t care what he said. I don’t need you working yourself to the grave for me.” Jason scowled, a very _Batman_ like scowl that had the younger shrinking in on himself slightly.

Tim’s frown only deepened as he hunched in on himself.

Jason sighed again, scowl disappearing as he scratched his cheek – right under the bandage that tugged at his skin and the stitches beneath.

“Hey,” As much as his knees hated him for the motion, Jason crouched down in front of his younger brother. “I get that Bruce is being a pretentious ass, and making you do _my_ dirty work.”

Tim looked pained at that statement and opened is mouth to protest.

“But,” Jason stopped him. “Since this _is_ my work, I’m telling you to stop and go to bed. I’ll deal with it. Okay?”

“But...” Tim looked down, the true extent of his exhaustion decorating his face. “He hurt you, again.” Those words, no matter how devoutly quiet they were, sent a pang through the elders chest that had no reasonable explanation.

Jason blinking and scrubbed at his eyes again. “Come on. Let’s go. You’re exhausted and you say the weirdest things when you’re sleep deprived.”

 

* * *

  

Getting his brother into bed was the easiest part his night, but the files and leads that were scattered about the screen, were none the more daunting. He collapsed into the chair, sending a pained look toward the empty mugs and discarded energy drinks. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to clean it up, disinfect the surface and wash those mugs. Another part of him – that small patch of subconscious which always ruined the moment – told him there was no point. It would only get messy again and his efforts would be a complete waste.

Groaning, he gave into his thoughts and went about cleaning. Dishes were piled onto a tray and cans were tossed into the recycling. Wrappers and the such, were thrown away and then he went about scrubbing the surface of the console. Such a task gave him ample time to reflect on these past few days.

Sleep hadn’t been on his mind – not even when the days passed and his body screamed for it. Yet, each time he closed his eyes, all he could feel was that cold blade digging into his skin and trailing down his face. The maniacal laughter that rung in his ears and drowned his thoughts. That smile still too close. Those hands still tugging at his hair and those nails digging into his scalp. His ribs ached, remembering the pressure put against him to keep still.

He scrubbed at the keys with the disinfect wipe, circling the same spot until the blue light beneath it distorted in a ripple of color. It wouldn’t go away, the color was still there, it still tainted the keys. Rationally, he understood that it was suppose to be there, but the console is still dirty, the coffee ring was still _right_ _there_. It won’t it go away. Why won’t it be clean. It’s not clean and it won’t wipe away.

He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together under the effort. His wrist was starting to cramp as that laughter dug into his skull and drowned out the faint whirling of the cave. Phantom pains drummed along his form. His ribs creaked, his back ached, his chest felt tight and that smell. The rich tendrils of tobacco flooded his nose as blonde hair danced through his mind and bloody red smiles kaleidoscoped across his vision.

His nails scrapped against his cheek, the bandage pulled and the stitches tugged. Everything itched, like bugs crawling under his skin and scattered over his body. He scratched and scratched, until skin bled and _why_ _wasn’t_ _the_ _spot_ _gone_. He scrubbed over the key and it was still blue. Why was it _still_ blue.

There was a sharp squeak that felt right next to his ear and he jumped, head jerking in that direction. Nothing was there, but it was so _loud_. Something above him creaked and clanked and he jerked his head up and to the pipes that criss-crossed the caves ceiling. Something was running through them, but it was as if someone was banging against them, and the sound rang across his ears. He discarded the wipe and slapped his hands over his ears, but even that was still too loud and it hurt.

Another squeak. Another creak. Another bang. Another ring.

He closed his eyes, nails digging into his head as he tugged at his hair. Strands plucked from his scalp, as the palm of his hand was banging against his ear – trying to drown out the noise. Trying to make is stop. It was too loud. Like an explosion going off right next to his head as his skin burned and his lungs were flooded with ash.

Suddenly, a hand was grabbing onto his wrist as someone screamed incomprehensible words into his ear. He tried to yank his arm back to cover his ear, he didn’t want to hear it. It was too loud, and now his cheek was itching again, but he couldn’t scratch it as his other wrist was grabbed. He panicked, and tried to tug his hands away, phantom pains flaring across his body, and his chest couldn’t expand enough for air. He felt like he was suffocating, the smoke burning his lungs and forcing the oxygen from his body.

“Jason! Jason, stop!” The voice screamed into his face. It laughed and dug its nails into his cheeks, carving into his skin until it bled and those scars burned into his face.

“Jason, look at me, son. Look at me!” There is was again, and suddenly those hands released his wrists and were grabbing his face. It was cool against his cheeks – _but_ _those_ _sharp_ _nails_ _were_ _digging_ _crescents_ _under_ _his_ _eyes_.

He was being shook. Those hands still holding his face as he let out a surprised yelp. It felt deafening to his own ears.

“You’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me. Come on, kiddo.”

Slowly he prided his eyes open and was met with wide blue orbs.

_Blue_. _Monsters_ _had_ _green_.

“That’s it, kiddo. Now, come on. Count with me. Fifteen...”

Shakily, he parted his lips. “F-fifteen...”

“Fourteen.”

“‘F-ourteen...”

“Thirteen.”

“Th-thirteen...”

The world felt quieter, no longer drumming against his skull and assaulting his mind with deafening noise. The tremors hadn’t stopped, and his fingers twitched and ached. His cheek burned, like someone was holding a flame against it or took a branding iron across it.

“That’s it, Jay. That’s it. Breathe in.”

He took a deep, shaky breath at the same time the man before him did.

“Breathe out.”

And breathed out. His lungs hurt with the motion, but he did it again and again until the everything cleared and the world came back crisper than before. The sound wasn’t so sharp and obnoxious, but his body felt weak. Knees wobbling as he sunk to the ground. The man – _his_ _father_ , his mind supplied – followed, still holding onto his face in a feather soft grasp.

“That’s it. That’s it. You’re okay. Everything’s okay.” He soothed, pulling him into a hug and pressing his face against his shoulder, the cool armor bring a shaky sigh across his lip – the cool a wonder across his hot skin.

Fingers trailed through his hair. He understood, rationally, that it was suppose to be a comfort, but it only brought on bad memories. Memories that had him pulling away from it and sinking further into the mans chest. But they followed, not understanding the message, causing him to dig his nails into the bat symbol.

“Don’...” His own voice felt scratchy and clawed at his throat.

“Don’ touch...” The words a breathy mumble, but loud enough for those fingers to stop going through his hair and the hand along his back to raise – leaving the area cold.

Bruce stared down at his son, expression full of anguish at what he’d arrive to when coming home from patrol. He had expected to see Tim, working away like he was when he left. Instead he found his second eldest having a full blow panic attack in the middle of the cave.

It pained him to no end to watch his son hit himself and pull at his hair. Scratch at his face and struggle against any type of help the man attempted to offer. It hurt even more when he tried to embrace him, protect him from his own mind, only to be told against it. To _not_ touch him.

He stared at him for a moment, navy orbs noting the steady breaths and the nails scratching the symbol on his chest. Wincing at the obvious turmoil his son was in, he lifted his head up and gandered around the area. He found the discarded rags and pile of dishes, the indent in the keyboard with a shine like no other. Narrowing his eyes he couldn’t think what had caused the attack but, sometimes, trauma doesn’t need an obvious trigger. Just a single thought and moment for it to spiral.

Jason stared at the symbol for what felt like an eternity, then scowled at it, jaw clenching. He didn’t want the comfort of his father. Didn’t want to deal with the sympathy the man crowed him with when they were around each other. Grinding his teeth, he pulled away and put some distance between the two – ignoring the look on the mans face.

“Jay?” Bruce asked, getting to his feet the same time his son did.

“M’fine.” The boy breathed, grabbing his jacket and shuffling it on.

Bruce stared at him, grief tainting his expression. “No, Jay, you’re not fine. Please, don’t run away. Talk to me.”

Jason ignored him and headed for the bike besides the Batmobile – one of which was still warm.

“Jason.” The tone was more forceful and demanding than Bruce had intended. His son’s form going ridged beneath it.

“Please. Talk to me.”

Jason glanced over his shoulder, gripping the black helmet now in his grasp until his fingers cramped.

“You don’t understand.” He murmured, dragging his orbs down and finding interest in the ground.

“Then help me understand. I know you’re hurting. Believe, I can see it, _especially_ after everything that’s happened.” Bruce took on desperation like a dying man to water.

He didn’t want his son out there when the clown was still running about – hidden or not. It hurt knowing his boy, his baby, was out there in the same city as that monster. He couldn’t help the wave of scenarios that plagued his mind. Ones where Joker found his son again. Hurt him again and Bruce wasn’t there to stop him, _again_ – like he wasn’t there in the hospital. They reeled through is thoughts like a movie. Each situation worse than the next.

Jason turned to face him, orbs blurred with tears as the scratches along his cheek beaded with crusted blood. He shook his head, fringe frothing over his forehead. Bruce had to harshly refrain from running over and pulling his boy into his arms and protecting him from the world.

“Please...”

“I’ll be at the Clock Tower.” Jason mumbled, words almost drowned out by the helmet he tugged over his head, and before Bruce could protest, he was gone. Racing out of the tunnel like the devil was at his heels, and that wasn’t far from the demon’s in his head.

 

* * *

 

She knew long before the alarm went off, or the security suddenly went down. With the storm that shuttered against her windows and the thunder that clapped across the sky. There was always a certain feeling that fluttered down her spine when she watched her systems glitch for a moment then blipped back into place.

He didn’t visit very often. Only stopping by to exchange information or grab a bite to eat. It happened once a month a least – unless a particular petulant case was forcing him to say hello. This time, she knew it wasn’t a case or case call. This was more personal, she could feel it in her bones.

When the hatch above opened with swift ease and a figure drowned in the shadows of the sanctuary, dropped down, she greeted them with a smile and cup of steaming tea.

“Hey, Jay.” Barbara said, holding out the china.

He stepped from the darkness, expression grim and fringe sticking to his forehead. She tried to ignore the tremor in his hands as he took the cup.

“Hey, Barbie.” He mumbled, sipping the tea and relishing in its warm. She took the time to study him in that moment. Noticing how he looked more than exhausted with the tremor of his limbs and the sway in his stance.

“Sit down.” She said, gesturing to the couch of the other side of the room. “You look about ready to pass out.”

Diligently, he maneuvered himself over the cushion and all but collapsed in its upholstery. A strangled huff dancing from his breath as he finished the tea and discarded the cup on the table off to the side.

“You doing okay?” She tried, voice feather soft as she wheeled over.

He hunched into himself, wringing his hands together as the marks on his face began to itch again. She titled her head, eyes scanning over his person, noting the little quips that fitted themselves along his form. The scratches along his skin and the obvious tear tracks that wetted the white patch over his cheek.

Gently, he shook his head. Toeing his shoes off – per her rule – and brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, chin resting on top.

She frowned, and reached over, placing her warm hand a top of his own.

“That’s okay.” She whispered, thumb running over his knuckles. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He glanced up for a moment, meeting her eyes. Her heart clenched in her chest as she saw the anguish and turmoil that plagued his orbs. The terror that clung to him in its cold vice and silenced his words.

He shook his head again, breaking eye contact and focusing on the floor. But she felt the grasp on her hand tighten, and she took the motion as a win – no matter how little it may be.

“Alright.” She nodded, a gentle obvious movement that didn’t have him tensing if he noticed it.

Lightening flashed through the windows, illuminating the area in white light before vanquishing in an instant. Thunder quickly followed behind, vibrating across the sky and sending a shutter through his body.

She tightened her grip and threaded her fingers through his bangs, unsticking them from his forehead and gently shaking out the beads of water that clung to their strands.

“Get some sleep. I’ll be right here if you need anything, okay?” She soothed, cupping his cheek and thumbing away the trail of tears.

“Can’t.” He said, voice hauntingly quiet as he leaned into her palm.

“Nightmares?” She asked, watching as he lifted his gaze up and stared past her and into the room. There was a motion to them, as if he was reading something along the walls or counting the objects scattered throughout. Something she had seen him do a countless number of times when he was younger.

He nodded once, teeth biting into his lip, peeling away the layers of skin until he could taste its copper.

“Okay.” She sighed, years of patients teaching her to keep the frustration off her tongue. “Can I look at your cheek though?” She gestured to his left one and the scratches it held.

His brows twitch, steeling his attention on her with a type of weariness that broke her heart. But, he thought on it for a moment then gave a curt nod. Slowly, he uncurled himself and crossed his legs, allowing her to look over his face. 

She tilted his head slightly, take a long look at the marks. Some broke skin, that much was obvious, but they didn’t look overly bad, which brought relief across her features. That was quickly vanquished when she noticed the blood seeping through the bandage. She hadn’t seen the mark herself, but from the reports Dick had went on about, it wasn’t anything pretty and it was deep enough to scar. Steeling herself, she looked into his eyes.

“We need to change the bandage.” She began softly, gauging his face for a reaction. His brows twitched and his expression sharpened into distrust.

“If we don’t there’s a chance it could get infected.”

He held her gaze for a bit then looked down and at the floor, contemplating.

“Okay.” He breathed, eyes closed, reserved.

She let a smile blossom along her cheeks and reached behind her to pull out a medical kit from her backpack on the back of her chair. She placed it on her lap and rummaged through.

Craning his neck, he glanced into the box and cringed. It was mess. A type of disorganized mayhem that made his stomach churn. His mind urged him to rip it away and completely reorganize it to a workable system, something that wasn’t... _that_. But he quickly remedied his thoughts when she pulled out what she was looking for and placed the case on the couch besides him. He couldn’t remedy the full body shutter with it next to him.

Luckily, if Barbara had noticed it, she didn’t say anything. Instead she reached up, making her actions completely open for prediction and peeled away the bloodied bandage. Beneath, was the one thing she hadn’t been given a complete description of and it took all of her will power not to wince. Through the beads of blood that welded up underneath those eighteen stitches, was the grotesque shape of a _J_.

Those teal orbs were staring at her from the corner of his eye, watching each and every reaction. She did her best to keep it neutral as she went about soaking up the blood and wiping it clean. Upon closer inspection, there looked to be no broken stitches, just the over tug of skin that allowed blood to bleed through just enough to cause a small issue. She frowned slightly as she lined up the clean bandaid over the mark and gently pressed it down, sticking the adhesive to the fuzz along his cheeks.

“There we go. All done.” Barbara sighed, leaning back in her chair and glancing at Jason.

He looked unsure, confused even. “You’re not gunna say anythin’?” He murmured, attention jumping from the floor and back up to her.

“What’s there to say?” She kept the words gentle. _Anything_ could send the wrong message and spook him like a fawn in a meadow. If that fawn has been at the wrong end of humanity since birth and been through any and all types of abuse there was, that is. She didn’t try to dwell on that thought though.

He looked her in the eyes for a second then shrugged, not seeming to trust his words.

She open her mouth to say something, but a blip on her computer pulled her from it. She glanced over her shoulder to the wall of monitors and noticed Batman’s icon flashing, indicating the need to communicate. She sighed.

“May I?” She asked, nudged her head toward the icon.

Jason shrugged. “If I can organize this pigsty?” And he jerked his thumb toward the medical kit besides him. A smile beamed along her cheeks.

“Go for it. I’ve been meaning to, but work tends to get in the way and I needed to prioritize.” She explained, turning and heading for the computers. She picked up the communicator and fiddled it into her ear before answering the call.

Behind her, Jason was quick to take the case and slide to the floor – an action that was making Barbara smile like an idiot as Batman began talking into her ear about locations and leads.

Jason glanced up as he began taking everything out of the container and spreading it out on the floor – the only light to illuminate his work being the flashes of lightning and blue of the monitors. He hadn’t minded it though, the light color felt calming to the rage of his mind and the repetition of his task keeping his thoughts in order, even as that haunting laughter crawled along his mind.

“Barbara?” He piped up, tucking the packs of bandaids into the appropriate spots – ranging them from size and type.

“Yeah?” Her fingers were flying across the keyboard, files and notes fluttering along the screen as a map was pulled up and dots blinked against its surface.

“Mind if...” He bit his lip, fighting the inner turmoil with his mind. The want to listen in on the conversation and mute the thoughts that drowned his subconscious. But the child within was telling him he was asking for too much and should be grateful she was even giving him the time of day.

“Never mind. It’s nothin’...”

She tossed him something over her shoulder and without looking up his reflexes caught it before his mind could even process its action. In the palm of his hand was a communicator.

“Already connected.” Barbara grinned over her shoulder with a wink.

He slip it over his ear with a shy smile in return and was suddenly assaulted with a barrage of orders. An argument between Nightwing and Batman. _That_ was something which brought back those few times Bruce and Dick were in the same room together when he was Robin. Arguments that always had him recalling being huddled up under the kitchen table as his parents went at it as well.

He winced when Nightwing snapped a sharp retort. He couldn’t catch its implication but it had him reaching for the piece and wanting to rip it out of his ear – until Barbara piped up.

“That’s enough.” She growled, Oracle taking over the persona. “He’s over in the finance district. Hurry, he’s moving quicker than usual.”

Jason tilted his head up, looking at the back of her head with pinched brows. “Barb...?” He mumbled, hoping no one over the comm could hear him, except for Barbara.

She seemed to have and turned slightly to face him. Her expression looked a mixture of regret and excitement. Without looking, her finger tapped a key.

“It’s okay. You’re muted. But...” She sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have given you the comm.”

“They’re goin’ after ‘em. Aren’t they?” It might have been worded as a question, but it wasn’t implicated as such. It was a statement and both of them knew that.

She gave him a long look before glancing at the ground then back up with a nod.

“Yeah. They are.” She held his gaze, watching as those orbs narrowed. “Do you still...”

“Yeah.” His expression sharpened into something that made her internally sigh with relief. That was the look only a man created of vengeance could muster. An iconic Bat growl that ground across his features and cracked his teeth.

“I wanna hear tha’ bitch _squeal_.”

 

* * *

 

He raced across the rooftops, blood thrumming against his ears as his legs burned. He jumped across the gap, skidding through the gravel on the other side as his cape froth over the ground. Then he was off again, another jump, another land. His knees protested like no other, but his heart pounded against his chest, emotions screaming at him to keep moving.

Oracle was giving directions, but the mental map within his mind hadn’t needed it. He knew his city like the back of his hand. Nothing could hide from him – especially when it involved his family. The revenge he felt was the same of _that_ _night_ all those years ago. The blood lust the crowded his rationality. The want for pain and dark part of vengeance his mind begged for. The Batman persona was a man built on loyalties and morals. Bruce was just a man, built on unconditional love and family. Put those together and you have a monster ready to push that line he drew out.

The very one he had refused to break all those years ago.

The very one that temped his patients upon its chalked line.

Another leap and he was there, staring into those insanity driven eyes. A growl crawled through his throat as he flew across the gap. His fist was instantly out and drilling into that plaster white mask of makeup, coating the ebony of his glove in its residue. The maniac hit the ground with an glorified thud, chortling into the gravel of the roof.

“My, my. Took you long enough there, _Batsy_.” The madman chuckled, jerking his head up, mop of green locks slapping against his face. That crimson coated smile grinned up at him without care, even at blood dribbled past his nose and coated his yellow pearls.

Batman growled, stomping forward and latching onto the maniacs lapels, dragging him to his feet. Once faced to faced, Joker laughed, breath coiling across Batman’s features as he snarled – drilling his fist into the clowns face again. The crack that shattered his nose a melody to his ears.

Joker hit the ground again, face gushing with blood as that smile had yet to seize from his face. Bruce ground his teeth, molars cracking under the tension.

“Ya know...” Joker huffed, a blubbering cackle turning into choked coughs. “It’s been a while since you’ve hit that hard. Ya know that.” He drowned himself in laughter, slamming his head back against the rooftop, gravel grinding into the back of his head and its matted locks of green.

“Brings back... memories.” The madman looked up at Bruce with an amused raised brow.

Batman growled, a dark animalistic tone that vibrated across his chest. In a fit of rage he lifted his leg and planted his boot on the psychopaths chest, ribs snapping under the force as the gravel beneath shifted. Joker laughed, a pained thing that seemed to loose its luster with the agony burning across his lungs.

“I’m done with you hurting my city.” Batman sneered, applying more weight as he leaned down.

“My people.”

Those ribs creaked and the mans chest slowly caved.

“ _And_ _my_ _family_.”

Bruce was in his face, applying every ounce of weight onto Jokers chest until he was wheezing. Blood speckled his lips as it coated his tongue, the iron a thick and familiar taste in his mouth. But his grin only widened, those choked gasps and wheezes turning into bouts of laughter that tore across the night air. Bruce growled again, spitting into the mans face with all the hate and rage his body had built up over the decades of this crusade.

“It’s time to end this.”

Joker’s smile, a grotesque thing that has forever become a blight upon this world. A nightmare for the people of Gotham and an alternating force of nature that haunted his children. Had only widened, crusting the layers of blood that stretched across his face and coated his cheeks in crimson. The thick scent of it staining the atmosphere.

“ _Once_ _and_ _for_ _all_.”

His boot gave way, crushing the ribs beneath until they were splinters of nothing. The sharp sound echoing across the rooftops and dancing through the city. A freedom cry to her people as the rain shuttered in silence, the lightening flickering across the sky, thunder a muted noise that never came.

Even as laughter thrummed in its wake.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Heh-heh.
> 
> I’ve very proud of myself for that ending and before you ask, no, I’m not adding more to this. What happens is up to your imagination.
> 
> In case you were curious, I took a lot of inspiration from Heath Ledger and Mark Hamill’s Joker. They just gave the character a true maniac vibe that the comics can’t compete with. Really brought the character to life.
> 
> Speaking of the Arkham games; Arkham!Jay has a very special place in my heart and was the inspiration for some of the more... morbid parts of this story.
> 
> Anyways. Once again, THANK YOU for all the love and support y’all had shown this story. The comments, the kudos, everything. As a treat, I’m in the process of planning another story with more fluff than pain (there’s always a but tho), and a character I’ve never written before. So, that’ll be interesting.
> 
> Enough of my gibberish. Lottsa love!
> 
> -Rhoverty

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this was a bit boring. I needed to build up the plot and introduce some key components. Believe it or not, each character is pretty essential to what I’ve got planned. 
> 
> All the action and detective work are going to happen in the next couple of chapters. 
> 
> Side Note/Inspiration for this fic came from my own love of cars. When I read the Red Hood/Arsenal comics, there was a very TINY part of dialogue where Jason said he liked cars. So, when I read that (which was forever ago) I took that information and brought it to life with this gem. 
> 
> Also, all the little tidbits of info on like the Corvette (Year: 1973), the Impala (Year: 1963) and such, are from my own experience and knowledge. I work on cars as a hobby and will be going to trade school to do it for a living so... I think I know what I’m talking about?
> 
> Fun Fact - Candy Apple Red is a very expensive and high maintenance color. One little scratch and you have to repaint the whole car. If not, the patch job (no matter how good the person is) will be pretty obvious if you know what to look for. (Look it up, it’s such a beautiful color!)
> 
> Alright, well I think that’s enough blabber. Next chapter is in the editing process. Should be up in a few days.
> 
> -Rhoverty
> 
> P.S. I wasn’t at all expecting the turn out I got on my last couple of stories. I’m beyond happy. Here’s hellva lotta love and thank you’s! Hearts for everyone <3


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